uncharted
by splendeur
Summary: A series of disjointed, odd one-shots to come. Really, whatever comes to mind, and begs to be written. Fic Exchanges posted within this story. *multi-chap* rated t, -various pairings- / ch.5: "love story" HAPPY BIRTHDAY ELIZABETH!
1. (i) summer is to love, may day fic exc

**i.**

**.:.: summer is to love :.:.**

**May day (late is my middle name) fic exchange for the lovely Dee (rush of the past). **

**Pairing: Alicia X Landon**

**Prompts: red ribbons, tan-lines, "catch me if you can"**

Summer is the time of year when anything can happen. Summer is the time of the year for pool parties. For dinner on the beach, for bandeaus and bikinis, for vacations. But, more than anything, summer is the time for love.

**_Love_**… is for summer.

He met her on the fifteenth of august.

She met him on the fifteenth of august.

_They are no longer children. This is long buried; forgotten. But the tale of love in the summer lives on. _

The alpha was long gone, that summer. Forgotten, but not completely, by the boy with the curly black hair and the bright blue eyes. Of course he recognized the girl standing before him on the beach. She was the alpha's best friend. The… what do they call it… the _beta _of the group. The one who used to date his old (old old old) friend.

The beta was no longer a beta. In fact, she was no longer in the group. They were free… to do what they wanted. Go where they wanted. The alpha was gone. And they were _free_. Memories linger, however, and of course she remembered the boy with the bright blue eyes. Who could forget… the one you coveted? All those years ago?

A shaky hello, is said by the boy with the long curly hair, trying hard (oh so hard) not to stare. The soft periwinkle bikini has crisscrossed straps. They've shifted, he can see the sharp contrast of light skin against dark.

The girl smiles back… she can't help herself. A perfect opportunity. Where is the alpha? Gone. _Gone Gone Gone._

_They are no longer children. But memories linger, if only buried by senseless thoughts. A story to tell. _

It was the summer before his freshman college year. The summer before her senior year. A year separating them…

One

Year.

The perfect age. The perfect time of year. The perfect situation.

_"Just yesterday they were tying ribbons in trees…" It's frightening how easily we forget._

They shared a kiss… a touch… purely lust, they thought. The next day, it was almost forgotten.

Never to be seen again, they thought. Never.

_It was summer. A time for… anything…_

Twice, a day passed, before they stumbled upon each other again. It's awkward, this time. Both recall their thought of never, and blush.

She's reaching for a branch of a tree, a scarlet ribbon in hand. He places his hands and helps her up. She ties it in a perfect bow. He never asks what for.

_Where have the memories gone? _

Now… barely two hours passes before they meet again. A proper date, he says. We have to stop running into each other this way.

She murmurs why, and burrows deep into his coat as they watch the tides.

_Is it possible to fall in love… and then forget?_

"Would you come after me?" she says suddenly. "If I left?"

He's confused. He's the one who's leaving for college, not her. Then he understands, when she's halfway across the beach, giggling, and running barefoot… as fast as she can go.

_Can you catch me? Catch the memories… to remember?_

Of course he catches her. That's the nature of things.

_The memories… can you remember?_

Two days more.

Two… more…

Of course she doesn't cry at their parting. He doesn't really expect her too.

But, he does smile when she ties the scarlet ribbon around his wrist. A smile. A kiss. He touches a soft palm to her exposed shoulder, marveling at the crisscrossed skin. As he brakes the embrace, she whispers a single phrase in his ear.

_Catch me if you can… (If you can remember.)_

To this day, a certain red ribbon exists, if only in a dusty old box in a cob-web encrusted attic.

One day… he might remember.

_Where have all our memories gone?_

Summer is a time for romances we forget.

_Just stories to tell._

* * *

**Sorry Dee. That was awful. I don't even know where... what... why...?**

**Anyway, sorry for murdering your prompts. They were so nice.**

**sp**


	2. (ii) daddy's little girl DARK

**ii.****  
**

**.:.: daddy's little girl :.:.**

**Completely random, I think the darkest thing I've ever written, so beware. **

**Pairing: n/a**

**Warning: dark themes**

**(if you don't like dark themes, just skip to the next chapter, or don't read)**

**this is your last chance. **

Everyone loves their dad. It's a given of life. Except for maybe, if your dad's a convict who's murdered seventeen people. Then, it might be okay not to love your dad. Or maybe, if your dad totally deserted you and left your mom for a bottle-blonde witch who lives in south hampton.

_Sometimes you wish you could have been daddy's little girl. _

You don't remember much about your birthday (who does)? But there are pictures. Awful, yet amazing pictures. In one, you're in your dad's arms (of course) and you're screaming your head off. Your little face is beet red, and your surprisingly long mane of chestnut hair is matted down. But, he's looking down at you like you're his angel. And you are. He has a funny little story about the day you were born, that he used to tell you all the time.

"Your mom wasn't sure what to name you." He would say with a laugh. "She was still deciding between naming you Mollie and Cassie."

When you were younger, and he started to tell this story, you would nod off. Boring, you thought. You already knew the ending. So you wouldn't listen to the rest. When you were older, you were even worse. You would rudely excuse yourself to the bathroom, the one with the TV, and watch Gossip Girl until he worked his way out of his sentimental mood. He always did, sooner or later.

_You were just so... so... awful. He loved you, you know._

Once, when you were nine, he took you to the zoo. Mainly because you had _read_ in the paper (how absurd, you never liked to read when you were older) about a new tiger exhibit, with those awesome white tiger cubs, and you would not shut up about it until you've got to go. He had work, you knew that in the back of your mind, a big project. But, you were a self-absorbed seven-year-old, and so you came first.

You get to the zoo late the next day, it's a long drive. He paid the admission, and you danced your way forward to get a stamp on the back of your hand. You always tried to keep the stamp on your hand for as long as possible, because after all, if you had the green ink on your hand, you were almost too cool for school. At least in fourth grade, you were.

As you stand near the glass, your nose pressed, you see the zookeeper crank open a door. One by one, small cubs follow their mother (a vicious thing, who snarls at you) into the open. All of them are adorable. But, you're graduated fourth grade now, you can count. There's only four of them, not five that the article had promised. You furrow your brows, leaning even closer. Then, the zookeeper comes back, cradling a small cub. She's completely white, you realize, and you look forward to see her when the girl sets her down. When the cub sits, you realize it has a kinked tail. You immediately dislike her. She's not perfect, like the others.

"You know, Massie, that one reminds me of you." Your dad murmurs. You stare at him, horrified. Was he making fun of you? Was he saying that you're not perfect? "Look, she's unique."

Your face grows sullen, and you refuse to talk to him for the rest of the trip.

_You were an evil child. No, wait, scratch that, you are evil. _

Two months later, you've switched schools. You have the pretty committee. You're on your way to ruling the roost at OCD. Every day counts.

So when your dad shakes you gently at six a.m. on a friday, and tells you he has a surprise: you're missing school, you argue. You don't want to go on some lame trip with your father. What would your friends think? But eventually, you relent. Secretly, you text your friends that you have the flu. That's always a good excuse.

You groan again when you find yourself, an hour later, at the gates of the zoo. What kind of fun trip is this?

Your father guides you over to the tiger exhibit, the one you thought was so cool three -no, it had to have been longer- months ago. And better yet, you're surrounded by preschoolers and old people (at _least _forty). By listening into their conversations, you realize there's a special presentation about the tigers.

It's a naming ceremony, you realize soon enough. The four regular tigers go by without making a mark on you, you're still too upset with your father.

"And the special one!" The zookeeper shouts. It's the all-white runt. You want to shout back, "She's not special, just weird! A loser!" It's a defense mechanism of your's. You've developed it quite remarkably.

"We've honored our now largest donation to date, by naming this one Massie!" Your head snaps up. You can barely look at your father, you're so embarrassed. What was he thinking? What would your friends think?

_Who cared what they would think? You, apparently. _

And then, when you were twelve, he did something you thought was unacceptable. He brought another family to live in your guesthouse. Horrible, right? You might actually have to be nice to another human being?

_You were spoiled on your own accord. There's no one else to_ blame.

So, when you were sixteen, when your parents start fighting, you remembered the _torture_ your father put you through with Kuh-laire Lyons (even though she's your friend now, sort-of) along with many other times he's said no, or embarrassed you, and you take your mother's side. You scream nasty things out the window at him, when he asks you if you're alright. Because you can't handle him. You don't have good judgement, you can't even look outside your own life to see what's really going on. How it's really your mother's fault. Because she's the one who's cheating, not him. But you believed her.

_You're an_ idiot.

And now, you can remember every single thing you thought of when you said "torture." The time, when you were six, that he wouldn't let you get two scoops of mint-chocolate ice-cream instead of one. The time, when he made you (_made you_) eat shrimp when you were twelve. All of those really qualify as torture right? Wrong._  
_

_Pathetic, more like it. _

It didn't surprise you when he met the witch a year later. He kept telling you to stop referring to her as the witch. But, the witch was _much _more catchy than Mollie (you see the significance, now you do). After all, you are your mother's daughter, and if your mother refers to _Mollie _as the witch, so do you.

You refuse to go to their new house. In custody court, they gave your father half-custody. But, your mother ignores it, and you have no problem with it. Soon enough he stops calling, realizing you're not going to pick up -ever-.

_Mother's daughter. You turned out just like her, a total bitch. Don't you wish you could have been daddy's girl all along?_

When the call comes, ten years later, you want to scream. You haven't seen your father -or your mother, really- in a good five years. You haven't sent him a father's day card in fifteen years. You can't remember the last time you told him you loved him.

_Karma comes when you least expect it._

But why'd he have to die, you ask yourself. In less than an hour, you've come to a conclusion, it was to punish you.

_Karma doesn't forget. _

And now you're standing over his coffin -closed, of course-. You're clutching the piece of notebook paper (that has no words, nothing written on it) until it rips in two. And then, you finally look up. Not into the eyes of your mother (the real witch), the witch (Mollie), or anyone else in the audience. You just stare forward.

And then, on it's own accord, your hand reaches out and takes the microphone. And without a single breath (they can change your mind, you know), you lean forward until your lips are almost touching it.

"Sometimes, I wish was still daddy's little girl."

Like you ever were.

Two days later, you're kneeling at his grave. It's father's day.

It's not really a grave. Just a brass plaque at the zoo, the only place you could think of when they asked you where you wanted it.

You bring a bunch of white roses. But, there's really no place to put them. With a little bit of effort, you manage to wreathe the plaque with them. It's the least you could do, really. The sad thing is, it's pretty much the first time you've cared enough to put effort into something for him.

Looking slightly past the plaque, you lock eye's with her. Massie, your namesake. She's staring at you. Her kinked tail is wiggling slightly. She's grown into her white coat. She looks normal now.

And weirdly, this is when you break down. Because she's normal, and you're not. You're broken. You're not daddy's little girl, you never will be.

Because you've lost your chance. He's not coming back to you. You may never see him again, not in heaven, because you're surely not going there.

"Happy father's day." You choke, ignoring the stares of passer-by. "Happy father's day, daddy."

You hope that, somehow, he'll be able to hear you.

* * *

**Um... sorry for that. Yeah. **

**-sp**


	3. (iii) when we sink the ships, contest

**iii.**

**:: when we sink the ships ::**

**June one-shot contest entry (2B)**

**Pairing: Massie & Cam (don't ready the torches, be calm)**

**Prompts: ****"It wasn't my fault.", sea-ships & miracles**

*******language, f word is said once... or maybe more**

********format, fanfiction likes to wrestle, and sometimes it wins**

When you wake up, you're disorganized. You don't quite know where you are; maybe you're experiencing one of those uber-realistic dreams Kendra's always talking about, the hot topic in all of her new-age magazines.

But when something warm, and oddly human-like, brushes against your leg, leaving it tingling, you know this isn't a dream. You're just waking up, that was just her comforter rubbing your leg, and sometime in between last night and this morning, Inez, her housemaid, on a whim, decided to paint your walls blue. But this isn't a girlish blue; it's a dark navy, reminding you of something just out of cognitive reach, someone's bedroom walls, perhaps? Alicia's? Claire's? No, not either of them. No one has that bad of taste.

"No." You suddenly sit upright, making the mattress sway a little. "No no no no no!" And sure enough, it's not your room, or Alicia's, or Claire's. It's a boy's room. Over there, a desk sits, piled with ancient papers and universal messiness, something a girl like you could never tolerate. And there! The two basic mahogany chests, that surely a mom would have picked out.

You stare, entranced, at a small painting of a ship on the wall for a minute, hardly breathing. It's a pretty ship. Very nautical. Very manly. This is a safe thing to look at.

Almost unconsciously, you reach down to see what's (who's?) next to you. And that's really when your world starts crashing down.

* * *

"You were both drunk." Claire said exhaustedly, palms flat against her forehead. Her voice took on a strange tone. "It's not any more his fault than it was yours."

"I was not drunk!" Massie insisted. "I had, maybe, two drinks at the most. And it _wasn't_ my fault."

"Uh-huh? Then who was that certain brunette I saw with three drinks in her hand? You're nearly an alcoholic."

"Not me... and I'm not!"

"Sure." The blonde sighed. "Listen, I don't get why you're pissed off at me. It's not my fault."

"He's your ex-boyfriend"

"So?"

"So, I expected you to be mad!" Massie spat, crossing her arms. "Why the hell do you think I trekked all the way over here at ten am?"

"So you get pissed off at me… because you expect me to be mad?" Claire's voice reaches a new tone. Grim amusement. It's almost too much for Massie to handle.

"It's a defense mechanism!"

"Sure it is; keep telling yourself that, Mass. Maybe one day it will become true."

* * *

You honestly expected her to be madder. Why else would you have hiked all the way out to the guesthouse in the rain? You don't do rain.

* * *

"You know Mass, this could've been fate. A miracle, I'd say." Alicia Rivera said into the phone.

"I refuse to accept that guess. Try again."

"Do you not remember seventh grade? The halloween party? I thought you would have made a better couple than Kuh-laire. They only lasted what- a month?" Alicia giggled into the phone, recalling the event with a humorous glint in her eye.

"A year," the tinny voice of Massie Block filtered back immediately. "Do nawt remind me of that."

"Reverting to your old ways?" Alicia grinned, before realizing the low hum meant Massie had hung up.

* * *

The world's coming to an end, you're sure of it. First you ended up in bed with _him_, and now, none of your friends understand?

No, now it's definite. Your world really is coming down.

* * *

"This is not going to ruin your life." Kristen Gregory insisted. "Maybe it was fate."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Massie shouted. "This was not fate."

"A miracle?" The blonde's mouth curled up at the corners. "I bet. Hey, don't you remember that time in seventh grade-"

"Don't talk about it." Massie hissed.

"-"

"Don't."

* * *

Do none of your friends understand? You were in bed with Cam Fisher. Cam Fisher. This marks the start of the end of the world, undoubtedly. Or maybe not.

There's only one thing you know. It was _not_ your fault, whereas, it was obviously his.

So you decide to give him a piece of your mind. With fingers not shaking at the least, you pick up your phone and you press send on a string of numbers that you may or may not have committed to memory.

"Hello?" He responds, and your face blanches.

"Mass?"

Click. You hang up.

That night, you dream of sea-ships. And they all look awfully like the one on Cam Fisher's walls.

* * *

Kendra ticked her tongue as she pulled the thermometer from her daughter's tongue.

"99 even." Massie ducked, and silently spread her fingers in joy. She could stay home!

"I saw you press that hot spoon against your tongue." Kendra said slowly, each word shattering Massie's hope further. "You're not sick."

"Yes I am!"

"You're going to school." Kendra said decisively. "I don't know what your trying to hide from, but you're going."

* * *

Thankfully, Cam doesn't go to your school. But all girls are hardly better. They've all heard, probably, and you really don't want to explain yourself. You declined the range rover carpool today, and now you're thirteen minutes late for assembly. Great job. Now everyone's going to be looking at you.

"Miss Massie Block." The principal clucked. Massie kept her head down, barely peeping up to find her seat. The PC always sat in the same row.

"Care to explain why you're late?"

"No thank you." Massie piped, and sat down. The room erupted into laughter, and Massie smiled with relief. Maybe they hadn't heard.

The relief evaporated when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Allie-Rose Singer.

"Hey, heard you bagged Fisher." Allie-Rose's lips curled into a smile. "Good job."

"How'd you do it? I mean, get him to break that virgin-until-marriage thing he signed?"

"Umm…" Massie looked to Alicia for help, but the beta was pretending to listen to the bird lady prattle about the new premium carpets or whatever. "I don't… really know."

It is the truth, after all.

* * *

By the end of the day, you're ready to cry from happiness. It's not that anyone's being mean. It's actually the opposite. You didn't want to sleep with Cam Fisher! You were drunk. But hey, that doesn't make as good of a story, does it?

You're so caught up in your own thoughts that you don't even notice it.

He's waiting by the fountain. Your glossed lips form a perfect 'o', and you stop in your tracks. You feel someone's hand on your back (Kristen's?) giving you a good-natured shove towards him, and you shuffle your feet over. You can't get out of this one, can you?

* * *

"Massie." Cam spoke, his hands ruffling through his hair.

"Cam."

"Are you going to keep hiding from me?" He laughed, "First you call me, then you ignore my calls?""

"Cam." She repeated, because nothing else was coming to her mind at the moment.

"If you want to forget this ever happened, that's fine." Cam's eyes retreated to the ground. "We can just say, I don't know, we were drunk."

"We were!" Massie cried in exasperation. "It was not my fault! Can't you understand that?"

"Were we drunk? Is that the only reason, Massie? Is it really?" His stare intensified, seemingly crucifying Massie right on the spot.

* * *

You don't like to try and remember parties. It never brings up good images, only bad ones. But you try anyway.

Nothing's forthcoming though, and you want to scream in frustration.

* * *

"My life is over." Massie whined, her face flat in the covers.

"Is it? Is it really?"

"Shut up. That was not funny, and don't even try to imitate him."

"Why? Because I'm not as good as the real thing?" Kristen's lips curled into a smile.

"Go away."

"No, really, do you remember anything?"

"About the night, the morning, whatever."

"Well, he has this painting of a ship in his room..."

"And that's important...why?" Kristen rolled her wrist, cracking the joint repeatedly.

"I think, I think..."

* * *

Now you remember. Of course you do.

_"I like ships. Small ships! Big ships! Cruise ships!" Massie giggled drunkenly, leaning against the boy. _

_"My mom likes ships too." _

_"Really, why?" _

_"I don't know. She hung this ship... picture on my wall though. You want to see it?" _

_"What, that or your room?" Massie winked, almost loosing her balance for no explicable reason. _

_"Both?" _

_"Of course!" _

* * *

You'll never admit it, but now, after a week of isolation, you're missing him.

* * *

"Well, have you contacted him?" Kristen rolled her toes on Massie's bedspread, marveling at the ruched pattern.

"No."

"Then, you can't expect anything." Kristen said decisively. "You already dispatched him once, and he doesn't seem like the persistent type. You do something if you want to talk to him."

"Like what?" Massie almost gasped at the words coming out of her mouth. She was Massie Block. She never made the first move.

"Call him."

"What?"

* * *

So you do. You call him, and this time when he answers, you manage not to hang up.

"Massie?"

"Cam?" You say slowly.

"So you finally broke down, huh. Couldn't bear not to see me?" You can almost hear the grin on his mouth.

"We need to talk." You spit out the words, trying to keep from letting your smile creep into your words.

"Well, absolutely, my dear lady. When?"

"Tonight?"

"I can't."

* * *

He has a date. This, this is perfect, you realize. He's out of your hair. Literally.

Let Olivia Ryan have him, you decide. He'll come crawling back to you. Probably.

But he doesn't. A day turns into a week as he continues to date the pathetic empty-headed faux.

You don't think you ever gave Alicia enough credit for coming up with Faux-livia.

* * *

"That complete asshole." Claire spat into the phone. "You know what? I'm going to go talk some sense into him."

"No, don't." Massie sighed, busy twirling the cream colored land-line cord around her fingers until they turned blue. "Let him date skanky Olivia. I don't care."

"Like shit you don't."

Massie chuckled grimly, releasing the cord with a twang of pain.

"Maybe it's better this way."

"I totally agree. I'll talk to him. I promise."

* * *

You guess it's not much of a surprise when you find out a week later.

Talked to him, she did.

And more.

* * *

"Listen, I thought you were _over_ him!" Claire panted, trying desperately to keep up with Massie's long strides. "I-I-..."

"Save it, Claire." Massie's tone didn't contain an ounce of emotion. "I honestly do not care what you have to say. Believe me."

"He was with Olivia!" Claire said desperately. "He wasn't yours!"

"You know, Claire? I don't give a **single** fuck about you or your new love."

"He's not my love! He jumped _me_!"

"Sure; keep telling yourself that, Kuh-laire. Maybe one day it will become true." Massie mocked, rolling her eyes. "You two deserve each other."

* * *

When he shows up at your doorstep three days later, you _**really**_ want to slam the door in his face. But you don't.

"I'm sure you've heard." You like this. He doesn't dance around the subject, like certain people do.

"Mm-hmm?"

"She jumped me, Mass."

"You do realize that's exactly what she told me?" You clap your hands together behind your back. "Did you guys have an excuse creating pow-wow or something?"

"I broke up with Olivia."

Almost unconsciously, you lift your hands and begin to slow clap. "Congratulations."

"Massie."

"Go away, Cam."

He doesn't go away. You didn't really expect him too, but still. His rough hands cup your face as he leans in for a kiss, and you ready yourself to feel nothing. You do feel something, though. But because you're a rational girl, you lift your hands and push him away anyway.

"You have two, probably more, girls right at your hands. Go be with them. Go choose them."

"But they aren't you, Massie. They aren't Massie Block."

"Pretend, Cam." You turn away, and it's not because you want to leave. It just may be because there's tears threatening to spill down your cheeks, or maybe because you're afraid if he says one more romantic line, you're going to run into his arms.

"But-"

"I hear Claire does a mean alpha bitch imitation." You say this with a grim chuckle, as you move to shut the door. Click.

"Massie! I need to-"

* * *

And it ends there. You don't get your happy ever after, your miracle. You don't get it, but Claire sure does.

You don't know how it happened, and you don't really want to find out.

Every week, you get a call from Claire. Straight to voicemail, since they all say the same thing.

"It wasn't my fault, Massie. He needed someone. You weren't there. I was. Talk soon?"

* * *

And exactly two months, three days & twenty-two hours after Cam was at your doorstep (you counted), a package arrives at your door.

Wrapped in a thin brown-bag cover, you scrunch your nose in half-disgust. It's not dirty, and it works, but brown-bag covers are**_ so_** seventh grade science.

Unwrapped, the package is a whole other story. It's a painting. A familiar one. Of a sea-ship.

**M, **

**I thought you may want this.**

**C**

**PS: Maybe it'll jog your memory.**

**-end-**

* * *

And with an awful, predictable, non-climatic, awful (did I say that already?) ending, this disaster crashes to an end.

So, yeah, I'd love to hear feedback from you though! Were the prompts thrown in too randomly? Was the plot completely boring? Do you hate the theme with a passion?

You can complain all you want about the pairing (kidding!), but I gave you Clam fans that tidbit at the end, so unless you like Calicia or some odd pairing like that, you shouldn't be rioting.

I'd love a review!

sp


	4. (iv) left for last, summer fic exchange

**iv.**

**. left for last .**

**Summer '13 Exchange for the talented Alex (Mauradings, or previously So Far From So Close)**

**Pairing: Krissington friendship drabble**

**Prompts:**

**Anne Boleyn, public speaking, honor cord(s), "You never knew how much space you occupied in people's lives" – F. Scott Fitzgerald**

*******open ending, drabble-y, dare I say _nonsensical_**

**_..._**

"And lastly, I'd like to reiterate one quote I told you all at the beginning of the year."

The man at the podium took one last deep breath, "Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."

Far off into the sea of black robes, Kristen Gregory snorted, all the while her friends were cautiously dabbing tears from their carefully outlined-eyes.

"Dr. Seuss." She mouthed along with the director, rolling her bright indigo eyes with annoyance. "Could they get any more original?" She murmured under her breath, watching with contempt as all around her, kids reached up and took off their special-order silk graduation caps and flung them in the air.

Once, twice, three times she got cuffed in the face by caps of surrounding students, and after the fourth, she swore under her breath and marched off. It took time to navigate the grass, as it was rocky with stringy abandoned honor cords and discarded robes.

She should be going now, she knew that, but truth be told, she didn't really want to. There wasn't anything special waiting at home for her, just a couple of over-excited red-faced parents and a sup-par dinner celebration (compared to the others, who would surely be throwing bash after outlandish bash in honor of their apparent freedom). So she sat down on the side of the road and lingered. For what, she wasn't quite sure.

"That was awful, don't you think?"

Kristen whipped around, only to find herself in company of Derrick Harrington.

"It's the director, what did you expect? A nobel-prize winning speech?" She smiled in a drolly way, the glint in her eyes waxing as he took a seat next to her on the curb.

"Actually, I was talking about yours."

"Mine?" Kristen broke into a coughing fit. When she hacked to a stop, she lifted her eyebrows in incredulous disbelief. "Mine?"

"Yes, yours." Derrick's smirk widened. "You know, when we elected you as valedictorian, I expected an exceptional speech."

"You don't elect people as valedictorian. You earn it. I've got the highest grade point average here, 4.91." The blonde scoffed.

"Well, I know I voted you in as president, so I still deserved a good speech."

"I'm sure it was your vote, and your vote only that won me the election." It was easy to fall into his pattern of speaking, with the low

"You're finally getting it." When Derrick smiled, a small crinkle appeared in the corners of his eyes. Kristen found herself staring, transfixed, and shook her head to clear her thoughts. "Besides, how did you not get a five-point-oh? I expected better from AB." He used the ancient nickname with unprecedented verve, and Kristen felt her face heat up yet again. She had forgotten about that; back in tenth, after Derrick had done a project on Anne Boleyn for honors history, decided that her mannerisms reflected Kristen's exactly, and promptly started calling Kristen by 'AB.' It had taken her several weeks to decipher the name, after which it promptly died out not two days later when the class moved past the 1600's. Forgotten.

"What's your GPA?" She blurted, suddenly on the defensive. It couldn't be higher than hers, of course, but god forbid he came close. She would never hear the end of it.

"4.56." Derrick admitted sheepishly. Kristen found herself wondering if he shared this with his buddies, the old team. Surely none of them had high grades. "But it doesn't matter. Going to college on soccer anyway. Stanford." He added.

"UNC Chapel Hill." Kristen replied simply, even though he already knew. Everyone knew in the group. Even Massie did, all the way across the pond. If she had been in the boastful mood that day, it wouldn't have been hard to find previously untold qualities about her future school to brag about. Like; the struggle of getting in out-of-state (which she had accomplished, early admission at that), or maybe the internationally renown pre-med program (that she would start in the fall).

"Nice." Derrick pulled, leaning first back, then forward. "I have to say," he added, getting back onto the subject, "your quote was a tad better than old Mr. Park's."

"Which one?" She had used several in her carefully crafted speech. It had taken days, thousands of drafts, buckets of stress-tears and several freak-outs to complete the thing: those that probably explained why she had bristled at Derrick's earlier offhand remark.

"The Fitzgerald one, the "_You never knew how much space you occupied in other people's lives_" one." His eyes found her face as he continued. "Works perfectly for our group. You know, we've been together since, what, seventh grade? We've survived Massie leaving, Dylan's mental breakdown, Chris moving and all that. But, now, we're splitting. We're going our separate ways. Separate corners of the country. Gone."

"Not gone." Kristen argued, her voice taking on a frantic tone, because she hadn't thought of it this way. "Just not together."

"Not together, gone, whatever. We don't even have the summer." Derrick chuckled grimly. "Not even."

"Wait, why not?"

"C's already gone." Claire.

"She's gone? To Florida already?"

"Yeah." _That might explain why he's so grim_, Kristen decided. "Not even a goodbye."

"Are you… over?"

"What do you think? Claire seem like the long distance type to you?" The question didn't even need an answer. "Cam, Olivia, they broke up yesterday. Dylan and Kemp; not far off, with her in Canada and him at Stanford with me. Who's left? Alicia and Josh? That relationship's been doomed from the start. I would be wholly surprised if Alicia didn't know Josh was cheating with Kori." He let the information flow off his tongue effortlessly, not caring any longer. "And then that leaves you, AB. The only one."

"Lucky me." Kristen offered dryly. "Don't have to worry about a devastating breakup." She spoke with as much sarcasm as she could muster, because, really, Derrick didn't appear to be that upset.

"No. You aren't lucky." Derrick retorted immediately. "You've locked yourself out of normal high school life." He proclaimed, ruffling Kristen's feathers further. Just when she had the perfect retort planned ("A relationship makes you normal in your mind? And you call me odd."), he smiled, and leaned back again.

"So, are we the last one's left in Westchester?" She broke the silence finally, because it had become unbearable. She didn't want to sit in silence with this boy.

"Not quite yet. But, soon, yeah. We'll be left for last."

"Left for last." Kristen echoed. "Yeah. Left for last."

But honestly, it didn't sound that bad. Not if she had Derrick by her side.

_**...**_

**Well, I hope that wasn't too horrid on the eyes. I struggled quite a bit with wrestling Anne Boleyn (what a creative prompt!) into the story, so sorry if that part made no sense.**

**Alex, I hope this wasn't too off the lines of what you were expecting! Your prompts were fantastic, and I hope this story didn't bend them too much!**

**Thanks for everyone who voted for me in the one-shot challenge, _when we sink the ships_ won first! **

**bridget**


	5. (v) love story, ELIZABETH B-DAY

**Happy birthday Elizabeth! I saw Clara's story for you and decided on a whim to write something in thirty minutes. **

**And you can definitely tell that it was written in 30 minutes but whatever because I feel like I need to branch out more and try speed-writing :) **

**I hope you enjoy it. **

**love story ('cause I really couldn't think of a title for this odd little thing)**

**pairing: clam**

Your love story starts at 7/11. Well, really you _should _say it _picks up_ at 7/11 on January 5th, because you **did** know each other in junior high, but you'd really like to forget that whole experience and pretend it never happened. It didn't exactly end well for either of you (_especially_ you), and **no** you don't like to talk about it.

Anyway, it's January 5th and it's about 8 PM at night and you're still on holiday from UNC and you're waiting in line at 7/11 on A Street in downtown Westchester. Your hand is grasping a pack of mint MM's, while the other mindlessly scrolls through Facebook. Your eyes roll as you see yet another one of Massie Block's pictures with her new college PC, posing outside of Bloomingdale's in NYC. She goes to NYU now, double majoring in Fashion and Business (what a huge surprise, even though it's not). Really the PC's all spread out now, if you could even still call them a group. Kristen, last you heard is pre-med at Stanford, while Dylan went AWOL on the whole college thing and is currently somewhere in the Maldives shooting an indie movie. You'd like to pretend the other member of your group has been totally forgotten by you, but it's not true. **_She_** by some cruel hand of fate ended up not only at the same exact college as you, but next door in the dorms. Luckily though, she pretends like you don't exist and you're perfectly happy with that. You think.

It's right then that a sharp intake of breath causes you to break off your thoughts and you turn around and **_there he is_**.

"Claire. Claire Lyons." It's the boy next to him that speaks, you know him too.

"Hey Josh." You breathe deeply. "Hi Cam." Inwardly you're cursing yourself and your choice of dress and your choice of purchase. This is the first time you see **_him _**in a year and you're dressed in your ratty old UNC sweatshirt (it's your mom's, actually) that's wet from the rain and you have MM's in your hand. You bet **_she_** has never even touched sugar since 8th grade. But then your thoughts take a mad U-turn and suddenly you're standing up straight, pissed off that those thoughts even crossed your mind. Cam doesn't deserve internal panic, and **_she_** especially doesn't.

"Fancy seeing you here." Josh's smile is wry and you really just want to slap the expression off of his face. Why is he there with Cam? (Last time you checked the boy was still pissed off because **_she _**chose Cam over him in 9th grade)

"Yeah, fancy it." Cam echoes and suddenly your thoughts take another crazy U-turn and you're looking at Cam's face and you're seeing his eyes and you're going crazy you're sure of it.

There are more words exchanged in that conversation, but your love story skips over those. All that matters is that four nights from then **_she's_** gone and your love story truly begins.

**AHHHHHHH**

***screams some more***

**sorry elizabeth**

**that probably made your birthday worse :)**

**AND THIS IS SO NOT 500 words sorry, I went over**

**SP**


End file.
